


the glow of your starlight softens my dark, creeping nights.

by Citrus Scented (Umazes)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff without Plot, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Trafalgar D. Water Law needs a hug and a nap, he's definitely not gotten a handle on his emotional baggage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24579055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umazes/pseuds/Citrus%20Scented
Summary: one by onestars flutter into dust-e.e cummingsSomeone has to care for Trafalgar Law, since he won't do it himself.
Relationships: Trafalgar D. Water Law/Reader
Comments: 25
Kudos: 208





	the glow of your starlight softens my dark, creeping nights.

**Author's Note:**

> as is the sea marvelous  
> from god’s  
> hands which sent her forth  
> to sleep upon the world
> 
> and the earth withers  
> the moon crumbles  
> one by one  
> stars flutter into dust
> 
> but the sea  
> does not change  
> and she goes forth out of hands and  
> she returns into hands
> 
> and is with sleep….
> 
> love,  
> the breaking
> 
> of your  
> soul  
> upon  
> my lips
> 
> -e.e cummings

### SUN

His hands are gentle.

It's the first quality you absorb of Trafalgar Law; the precise, light touch of his fingers against your back as he prevents you from falling into him, almost bowled over by a couple of passers-by.

"Those idiots," he hisses as he steadies you. One hand lightly grips your shoulder, warm and soft against your bare skin. He touches you with care, if not with attention. "Sorry. I'll deal with them later."

"Oh, um—okay," you say, a sudden flush of heat blooming inside you at his proximity. "Thanks for catching me."

He looks down at you, golden eyes cool and piercing. The hint of a frown settles on his lips; more bemused than angry. “Sure.”

The pressure against your back and shoulder vanishes as he lets go abruptly and walks off. If he turns back to give you a second look, you don’t notice, too caught up in the embarrassment of colliding with an attractive stranger.

* * *

Law leans back, long legs stretched out and an arm carelessly thrown over the back of the chair; the tavern is crowded, but there's always a little space around him. The Heart Pirates know to allow their captain his personal space, and he fills it with the sheer force of his presence. 

You catch his eye. There's a perpetual smirk on his face that only grows bigger as he watches you, the cat who caught the canary. You can't help but fluster under the intensity of his gaze. 

"Captain's got eyes for someone," hollers one of the pirates, and they start jeering when he doesn't protest. You flush harder and turn to avoid his stare.

The abrupt screech of a chair against wooden flooring quiets the tavern chatter. You freeze in place. Maybe he’s angry now with all the teasing. You might have to make a run for it—

“Hey,” says Trafalgar Law. He leans against the bar counter casually, eyes fixed intently on you. “Can I buy you a drink?”

His crew erupts. The ensuing hubbub ensures that at least nobody remembers your own reaction, except for Law himself.

* * *

He crushes you against him, his arm suddenly steel around your waist as he digs his heels into the rocking, swaying deck of the ship. 

"Don't worry," he says; his voice is calm and low, but somehow it carries over the howling winds and crashing waves. "I've got you."

A swell of water crashes over both of you as he says it. You reach for Law reflexively to steady yourself despite the tightening of his grip; your palm makes contact with the soaked, heavy edge of his shirt and presses down over his thunderous heartbeat. Your fingers brush his cold, wet collarbone, and he smirks just a little.

"The submarine is so much better than this," you say, and a full grin flashes across his face like a bolt of lightning.

"You'll get used to it. It's part of life at sea."

"Very fun and cool," you say sarcastically as you regain your balance. Law lets you go, watching you stagger towards the mast, where Ikkaku is struggling with some rope.

Your remaining attention is occupied mostly with the work of bringing in the sails; but you still spare a moment to watch your captain issuing commands from the top deck, back straight and eyes watchful, making sure each and every crew member is safe and accounted for.

* * *

Law is vibrant in the height of summer, all blacks and oranges and golds and whites; a tiger in the jungle. He is at ease in the heat of midafternoon despite the oppressively warm hat he insists on wearing; only a thin sheen of sweat gleams in the hollows of his collarbones, over inky black tattoos. 

“You’re not tired already, are you?” he drawls, turning back to watch the rest of you struggle through vegetation.

“No,” you say indignantly. Your pace says otherwise. Penguin pants harshly beside you and gives Law a thumbs up.

“Good, then.” You catch the edge of a grin as he faces forward again. “Keep walking.”

Despite the curses being muttered behind their captain’s back, the crew is in high spirits. A successful encounter against the local fauna has Law deciding that you might as well investigate the island, and he’s always willing to take point. 

After two hours of methodical searching he declares a break. You collapse on a shaded rock and let out a low moan of relief at the coolness of it.

“I’m not made for this heat,” Bepo says. He sits beside you with his shoulders hunched, the picture of misery.

“It’s not that bad,” Law replies neutrally. He looks thoroughly unbothered by the state of his companions; even so, you watch him dig a bottle of water out of your supplies and offer it to his friend. “Stay hydrated.”

“Me too,” you whine; he raises an eyebrow as you give him your best puppy dog eyes. “Captain, I’m thirsty.”

“You,” he says, “are awfully needy compared to a polar bear in summer.”

“Hey!”

Bepo offers you the water bottle. You shake your head; your hair clings damply to your neck, uncomfortable.

“See. You aren’t even that thirsty.”

“Not for water,” Penguin says, “just for the captain’s attention.”

“Penguin, you can stuff it!” You heave yourself off of the rock; it’s lost its coolness anyway, warming with the heat of your body. “If you’re going to be rude to me, I’ll search for treasure by myself!”

“Don’t wander off on your own,” Law says. Amusement persists at the corners of his mouth, a slight upturn that softens the heavy edge of his voice. “We didn’t come here to do a rescue expedition.”

“Do you have any more lectures to give me, _mom_?”

“Yes. Clean your room when we get back.”

You make a rude hand gesture as Shachi shakes with laughter beside you; Law grins wide at your fury. His teeth and eyes gleam in the dappled sunlight peeking through the trees.

"I'll remember this,” you threaten. 

His gaze is predatory, the grin lingering.

"I hope you do."

* * *

Your eyes are burning. 

Law's been in the operating room for twenty-seven hours, almost continuously; the Heart Pirates have never taken this much damage before, and it's more than he can fix with just his devil fruit abilities. For the time being, the Polar Tang has opted to float stationary in the waters, sheltered in a rocky outcropping. The lack of engine noise allows you to hear the surrounding rooms filled with cries of agony, soft hisses and sobs, the rustle of sleepless bodies. 

You had been planning to sleep but Shachi asked you to keep watch outside the O.R. while he took a 10 minute nap (and never came back). You didn't seek him out; he probably needs the rest more than you do. 

Despite the background music of pain, no sound escapes the room behind you; the door only opens and shuts periodically as people are wheeled in and out. Law does not emerge. Slowly, gradually, the ship quiets. 

Thirty hours in, he finally reappears.

"What are you doing?" he croaks. The doctor is in terrible shape; his face is pale as a corpse and exhausted, his hands twitching. He reeks of antiseptic soap and, more faintly, blood.

"Waiting for you." When he raises an eyebrow, you elaborate. "Shachi asked me to. I see why now."

Law snorts. "Shachi should have worried more about you. You look half dead."

You've been sitting there for about nine hours and your legs are stiff and aching, but you won't tell him that. "You're one to talk."

"The surgeries couldn't wait," Law says, "there was no choice."

"I know." He looks surprised at your admission. "You're a good captain, you know. I'm glad to be part of this crew."

"It was only what was needed. Go sleep. I'm done for the time being." 

"Are you going to sleep now too?"

"Sure."

The answer doesn't sit well with you.

"Sleep with me."

Law turns and gives you a flat look, too drained to even make a smarmy comment. Your cheeks redden in response.

"Just actual sleep! I feel like you're going to stay up all night again. I'm worried."

"I don't sleep well," he says offhandedly. "You'll be disturbed too."

"That's okay."

"If it will satisfy you, then by all means."

You follow him to his room. It's obsessively neat; bed untouched, books meticulously shelved, no stray clothes. It doesn't feel lived in.

Law throws himself onto the bed and watches you trail after him. You settle in beside him. The two of you watch each other for a long moment. The lack of conversation eats at you like acid on your skin.

"Goodnight, then," you say awkwardly. 

"Yeah."

He extinguishes the candle beside his bed, plunging the room into darkness. Faint moonlight filters in through the porthole above his desk, just enough to glimpse the outline of his body beside you. You wonder what, exactly, you’re doing here. If you’re being tolerated or if he actually wanted the company.

The obscurity gives you enough courage to reach for him first. Your hand creeps over the blankets and reaches Law's own; he twitches, but allows the contact. 

When you curl around his arm, his body goes stiff. 

"Sorry, I—"

"Sleep," Law says tightly. "It's just unfamiliar." He doesn't push you away. After several excruciating minutes, he forces himself to relax. 

He ends up being right; neither of you sleep well that night. But it's a bit easier the night after that, and easier still the following night as you acclimate to each others' habits. You think a full night's rest might be coming. 

### MOON

He stands on the deck of the Polar Tang, watching the waves sluice the wooden planks. There's something of tension in the lines of his shoulders, and you suddenly feel that Law looks very lonely, staring off into the distance by himself.

You walk across the deck and stand next to him, shoulders not quite touching, and look out in the same direction. Silence can be valuable, after all, and you're not sure what thoughts you might disturb by talking to him.

It takes a few long moments before he acknowledges your presence; one long-fingered hand reaches out to tangle with yours.

"Something on your mind?"

He looks at you. His gaze is sharp, despite the warmth of its golden hue, despite the kindness of his heart behind those discerning eyes. He looks at you like this sometimes, as if he's forgotten that people who like each other normally smile, or that he has ever smiled at all.

He looks tired. You wonder if he hasn't been sleeping again; if he's sneaking out of his bed to read late into the night, kept awake by all those worries that bounce around that brilliant brain of his. There are shadows pooling at the edges of his gaze, in the hollows of fine little wrinkles.

"Law," you say, and he sighs wearily. The sound breaks your heart just a little. "Law," you repeat, "come take a nap with me?"

He lets you tug him back into the ship, down narrow corridors and into its depths. He lets you slide the coat off of his shoulders and relocate his hat to the table beside his bed; there are little beads of moisture trapped in the fabric that dampen your hands as you handle it. He bends and unlaces his boots, dropping them with heavy thuds on the ground, and then sits at the edge of the mattress. The exhaustion is still present in every line of his face.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No,” Law says, and reaches for you. You let him pull you close, cradling his head and sweeping your hand soothingly over his shoulders until they slowly droop, and then you crawl into bed and coax him to follow. He tends to forgo blankets and bed covers if left to his own devices—as if he is unused to these luxuries—so you reach over and drape one over him before huddling close.

This Trafalgar Law is familiar. You can tell, instinctively, that he no longer wants to be touched; he’s changeable like that when he’s lost in his thoughts. Instead you rest beside him, just close enough to feel the ghost of his breath against your skin, hoping that some of your own peace will reach him. Law lies beside you for a long time, awake, watching you with vacant and heavy-lidded eyes.

And then, suddenly, he’s out.

You aren’t particularly sleepy, but you stay there dozing for a few hours to give him some rest. Goodness knows he needs it.

* * *

You wake in the middle of the night.

His eyes peer at you from the gathering of shadows at the other end of the room. You can feel his gaze but it’s impossible to see anything when the ship is submerged; the ocean is a void that extends in all directions.

You reach out blindly for the candle you know is there, but his hand closes around yours before you can even begin to light it. You startle at the touch. Law knows the space; can feel it in a way you have never quite gotten used to.

“Not tonight,” he says softly. There's something sharp and brittle in his tone like broken glass.

The two of you remain like that, suspended, listening to the distant hum and clank of the submarine’s parts. Somewhere in the distance, with your other senses heightened by the dark, you can hear somebody snoring.

“Okay,” you whisper, and reach for him. Law lets you pull him onto the bed—he falls ungracefully, with a thump that makes the mattress squeak, and lays sprawled there as if knocked out. He doesn’t move as you run your fingers through his hair and wait.

The night stretches on.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Sleep is beyond your grasp now, with the way he’s acting, but that’s okay. Unlike him, you get more than enough rest to sacrifice a night here and there.

“Bad memories?”

“You’re implying there are good ones.” You listen to him roll over, the mattress shifting under you, so that he can stare up at the ceiling. Your gaze wanders upwards too, but there’s only darkness no matter how hard your eyes want to adjust, so you close them.

“I’m sure you have a few,” you say, but platitudes rarely work with Law. There’s no opportunity for a walk to clear his head, so instead you opt for a distraction. You grope blindly in the darkness for his body until you make contact with his shoulder and then press close, so you can speak soft and clear into his ear. Law stays motionless underneath you as you drape yourself over him, your hand resting over his heart.

"Today Penguin and Shachi wanted to play poker. Did you know Penguin is really bad? He can't control his facial expression at all. So Shachi decided to bet the entire week's cleaning duties with him and.."

You chatter quietly into his ear until your voice begins to get hoarse. Law remains unresponsive under you, aside from the occasional noise of acknowledgement. As your story concludes, his arm bends and a hand lands on your head, stroking your hair affectionately. 

"That’s enough," he says, his voice heavy with sleep. You snuggle into him and let his touch lull you back into unconsciousness. 

He's already awake the next morning when you rise, which is not unusual, but his eyes are clear and bright. A little smile quirks his mouth when you say good morning, and you know that last night was a victory for both of you.

* * *

It’s a bad day.

You can tell as soon as you see him by the cold cut of his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. Law is somewhere else today, encased in icy memories. Sometimes it feels like he just—forgets. Forgets where he is in time, who he’s become.

His demeanor is largely unchanged, but he’s unusually vicious in battle that day. The ground is covered with prone bodies before the crew can so much as draw their swords. Hearts in neat little cubes litter the space at his feet. Law picks one up and tosses it up and down, breathing is a little too fast and shallow compared to usual, a cruel sneer stretching over his lips. 

Bepo looks upset. Shachi and Penguin whisper to each other and watch Law warily. The rest of the crew mill around awkwardly, silently; they’re afraid of him. You’re afraid, too.

“It’s not enough,” he declares, folding one leg over the other and squeezing the heart experimentally in his hand. There’s a weak moan from one of the marines lying in the dirt.

“Law,” you say hesitantly. All eyes slide towards you.

He gives you a cool stare. It feels like he doesn’t recognize you at all—or if he does, he doesn’t care. One eyebrow slowly raises.

“Something to say?” he asks sardonically.

Your instincts tell you to say no. 

You force yourself to take a step towards him, then another. With each tentative advance, his expression closes off, until you’re staring at the Surgeon of Death and not the Trafalgar Law you know at all. He tosses the heart aside and focuses the full, crushing weight of his gaze on you. Even seated lower than you, his presence dominates.

“This is enough for now,” you say quietly. Thankfully, your voice doesn’t shake. “I don’t think you’ll want to remember this later if you go any further.”

His brow furrows. You can see a cloudiness enter his gaze as he sits silent for a long moment, like he’s thinking it over and realizing something is wrong.

Well. If you lose a hand, at least he can put it back on later. You crouch in front of him and take his hand in your own. His fingers clench spasmodically around your own, as if he isn’t fully in control of them for a moment, before settling on holding tight. Another lengthy minute passes. Your thighs start to hurt.

“Let’s go,” Law says. He stands abruptly and heads for the ship. You know he isn’t going to talk about what just happened, nor admit his confusion publicly. He doesn’t offer any explanation and nobody dares to ask for one.

Shachi pats you briefly on the shoulder as you pass. If nothing else, you think it was worth speaking up. 

* * *

He's pale in the moonlight, a greyish pallor to his skin that suggests he's not seeing enough sun, or perhaps not eating well again. Considering how much he knows about the human body, it’s astounding how poorly Law takes care of his own.

“Just asking,” you say as you approach him. You’re docked for at least the next week, but the captain of the Heart Pirates still spends the vast majority of his time holed up in his cabin, poring over books and papers. When he’s not reading, he’s emerging for late night walks and snooping sessions, all business; you wonder if he ever chooses to relax on his own. “Just asking, but have you eaten at all today?”

He blinks. “Oh. No. I was busy,” he says dismissively.

“Hungry?”

“I’ve been hungrier.”

It’s a common response. _I’ve been hungrier, I’ve been more exhausted, I’ve been sicker_. Like he’s trapped in an eternal misery competition with his past self, and he’s always losing.

“That’s not what I asked,” you say evenly. Law shoots you a mildly irritated look that rolls right off your back. It will take more than that to ruffle your feathers, seeing as you’ve been checking up on him and he’s been brushing you off for as long as you’ve been around him.

“I’ll eat later,” Law says. You sigh and grab his arm with both hands, yanking _hard_. He takes one step towards you, more out of surprise than any actual effect on his balance.

“You’re getting dinner with me tonight, and then taking a stroll with me tomorrow afternoon.”

“Last time I checked, I was the captain and not you.”

“The crew will take my side,” you warn him. His blatant irritation wars with resigned amusement in the face of your threats.

“Oh, is that so?”

“I’m already well on my way to converting Penguin and Jean Bart,” you say haughtily. “You better watch out.”

He coughs out something suspiciously like a laugh in response to that. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, then.”

“Good. So, what are you feeling like having? I’m thinking fish.”

* * *

Law stands on the deck, watching chunks of ice as the Polar Tang navigates frigid waters. The deck is subdued this early in the morning, with the weak light of dawn still barely illuminating your surroundings; only Jean Bart is abovedeck with the two of you. He gives you a cheery little wave that you return before jamming your hands back in your pockets. 

"See anything good?"

Law turns little to look at you out of the corner of his eye. His mouth is obscured by the collar of his coat, and you have to rely on his gaze and posture to judge his mood. 

"We should be reaching another island in a few hours," he says. It's unclear whether he’s prepared to make conversation or not, based on his response, so you opt for a safe and companionable silence.

An ice floe drifts by, rocking over the waves. Aside from the rush of the sea against the Polar Tang’s sides, it’s utterly quiet.

“You wanted something,” he says matter-of-factly. You look up to find Law already watching you. His eyes flit about your face, no doubt taking in some furrow in your brow or twitch of your mouth that betrays your unease.

“Just to spend time with you,” you reply. You rest a hand lightly against the chilly railing. “Wish granted.”

Law’s eyes return to the ocean. “You’re easily satisfied,” he mutters. “If that’s all, then knock yourself out.”

The day passes uneventfully; but when you come down with a cold the following morning, for some reason, he doesn’t scold you as harshly as you expected.

### STARS

You look up, into the endless sky, and find it devoid of visible stars. You look up, up, up into the darkness, until you're afraid that you've forgotten which way is down. Until you're afraid that you've gone blind.

All you can sense is the sea air leaving a clammy sheen on your skin and Law’s fingers pressed lightly against your pulse. His hands are warm against your throat, thumbs nestled comfortably against the thin, soft skin behind your ears.

You breathe, and he breathes, a little bit delayed—like he was waiting this time to make sure you did it first. You can feel your pulse drumming steadily in your throat, everywhere he touches you.

"I'm here," you whisper, and he exhales slow and soft against the shell of your ear.

"Good," says Law.

* * *

You wake up in his bed, enveloped in thick, soft blankets and the scent of soap. Law is asleep beside you, one hand tucked under his head and the other clasped loosely around yours. His thumb presses absently against the artery of your wrist.

You watch for the rise and fall of his chest, for the twitch of his eyelids as he dreams; Trafalgar Law sleeps like a corpse, like he might never wake again. His breath is shallow and his face neutral, almost expressionless. It would be a stretch to say that he looks peaceful—even in slumber, something is tight at the corners of his eyes and lips. A ghost of pain lingering in his subconscious.

He wakes as soon as you stir, but the captain is not a morning person. He sighs and shifts to pull you against him, curling around you until you're hopelessly trapped. Law's body is a furnace, radiating heat and the assurance that he is still very much alive with every thump of his heart. He presses you against his chest and relaxes again, mumbling something incoherent.

"Okay," you murmur; it’s warm here, safe and secure. There are so few places left in the world where you can sleep deeply and without fear. "Okay, let's stay a little longer."

* * *

A raspy sputter of laughter escapes Law as you dab antibiotic ointment on his hand with a wrathful expression; the sting of it doesn’t even make him flinch. He stifles the sound a moment later behind a lip bite as you glare up at him.

“What kind of doctor injures his hands?” you ask waspishly. “Your dominant hand, at that.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“ _No_.”

“Lying isn’t very becoming,” he says, his gaze warm where it sweeps over you, almost amber in the lamplight. Law leans back in his chair, tilting his head to observe you from under thick curtains of lashes; he looks especially arrogant from this angle, his legs splayed on either side of your stool, free arm dangling loosely towards the floor. “I can always tell when you lie.”

“Oh yeah?” you retort, “How about next time you tell when someone is going to cut you, instead!”

“There’s no need to get worked up.” He’s definitely enjoying himself now, a familiar smirk growing on his face as he takes in how testy you are. You wrap the wound a little tighter than strictly necessary, but he doesn’t so much as protest, so there’s no satisfaction in it. Instead he flexes the hand and grabs yours, squeezing lightly. “See? I’m perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, you’re fine _now_ . You completely exhausted yourself! You slept for _two days_. Do you know how hard it was to get you back here?! I’m not tall enough to carry you no matter how skinny you get—” you jab a finger at his chest for emphasis, and he feigns pain for a second before you slap at him even harder “—and I didn’t think you’d want to be lugged back here with your shins scraped raw—”

"—I know," he says. The playfulness in his gaze takes a backseat to something deeper, warmer. “I couldn’t just watch you take that hit.”

“W-well,” you sputter, “thanks. I guess.”

“Cute,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t miss the embarrassment that flits over your face. “If you’re going to worry about me this much, you’ll have to live with me doing the same.”

You’ll have to concede this one. It’s only fair, after all.

* * *

It was easier than you expected to coax Law into a bath. Maybe he’s feeling generous, or maybe he’s just that tired; either way, you find yourself drawing hot water in an inn, adding lavender scented oil in the hopes of relaxing him a little bit.

The room is slightly fogged over with humidity by the time the bath is ready, steam curling from the water. You emerge to find Law reading in the bedroom. He seems fully focused on whatever text he’s immersed in, to the point of ignoring your presence as you approach.

“You’re going to give yourself a headache reading in this light,” you say, as if he doesn’t do this daily.

His gaze finally lifts to latch onto you. Law looks beyond exhausted. His eyes are searing flames, staring at you so intensely that you’re sure he has tunnel vision right now. 

“I’m fine,” he says. It’s an obvious lie, and you make a face at him to let him know you think so.

“Okay, Captain Fine, it’s time for your bath. Hurry up or the water is going to get cold.”

He stands up slowly and stiffly, swaying a bit on his feet. His hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose for a moment before gesturing for you to keep quiet.

“I’m going to at least wash your hair for you,” you say. “I’m afraid you’ll faint in the bath or something.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what will happen when you get in that bath. This isn’t up for debate.”

“You want to see me naked that badly?” The edges of Law’s lips curl up slowly. “Who knew you were so forward?”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m too concerned to react to that right now.”

That’s not quite true. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but heat still prickles at your collar when he looks at you like that.

Law follows you obediently as you take his hand and lead him into the bathroom. He watches you with quiet, fatigued eyes as you help him out of his clothes. His fingers are steady (they always are), but he’s slower than you’ve seen him in a long time. You catch his hands in yours for a moment and hold them before working at the buttons on his shirt yourself.

“How long has it been since you last slept?”

“I don’t remember,” he replies blandly. “There was too much to take care of.”

“You’re not going to be helpful if you’re falling asleep on your feet.”

“Take care of _yourself_ ,” Law retorts mildly, “I can’t sleep because there are too many problems that need fixing.”

You huff at him but don’t respond. It’s in his nature to be helpful, no matter how much it inconveniences him.

Law sinks into the water with a quiet groan, going limp. You’d be afraid that he was in danger of drowning if it weren’t for his absurdly long limbs crowding the tub. As it is, even with his weakness to water, he only slides down until the water splashes over his collarbones and then tips his head back weakly against the porcelain edge.

“Feel good?” you ask, earning a low hum in response. “Can I wash your hair?”

Law makes a small noise of approval and leans forward to let you perch on the side of the tub and reach behind him. You take your time rubbing the shampoo into his hair and massaging his scalp, until his head is heavy in your hands as he relaxes even further.

You support him with one soapy hand and gently rinse the suds from his scalp with the other, taking care not to get shampoo in his eyes.

“Want me to wash your back too?”

Law doesn’t respond immediately. He’s so limp in your grasp that you worry for a moment that he really fell asleep or fainted—but after a few moments his eyes flutter open again.

“Get in.”

“Huh?”

“You get in too,” he repeats sluggishly, as though it takes every ounce of his effort to speak. “Wanna take a bath with you.”

You can’t see any reason to refuse, so you shed your own clothes and climb in too. The bathtub was already small with just Law in it, but it’s a very tight fit for both of you even when he shuffles to make room. You end up cradled flush against his firm chest, his legs enclosing yours. Law’s arms wrap snugly around your torso and he rests his head against yours, breathing slow and deep.

“This feels nice,” he says. The water is still pleasantly hot, lapping softly against your skin. You recline in Law’s hold and let him rest for a few minutes before twisting around to carefully scrub him, and yourself, clean.

The movement rouses him from whatever trance he was in, and Law watches you through his eyelashes with a hazy, more relaxed expression than you can recall ever seeing on his face. His gaze is molten as it sweeps over your body.

“You...are ridiculous,” he eventually sighs, a faint smile tilting his lips. He turns you around again and you feel the cool sensation of shampoo against your scalp before he starts working it in with firm, gentle motions.

“Why? Because I want to take care of you?” You can’t help but pout at his words.

“You didn’t have to do all of this for me.” He tips your chin back to wash the shampoo out and then presses a kiss to the crown of your head. His lips briefly chase a droplet of water down the side of your neck, over your shoulder and upper back.

“You’re welcome, Law.”

He makes an amused sound. “Thank you.”

You disentangle yourself from the cage of his limbs; he tries to pull you back against him, but the prolonged bath has made even a devil fruit user as strong as Trafalgar Law into little more than a weak kitten. He rises from the bath with a concerted effort, looking revived as soon as his body leaves the water.

“Don’t think this is a free pass to go work yourself half to death again,” you warn him as you hand Law a towel. “You need some sleep too.”

You slide into a bathrobe and make to leave the room, Law trailing behind you as he roughly towels the water from his hair.

“Well then, see yo—”

“ _Shambles_.”

Your vision whirls dizzily; suddenly you’re tilting and falling with a hard thump onto the bed. There’s a soft _whump_ as Law’s discarded towel hits the ground where you were standing; he pays it no attention, sitting beside you and leaning over your body.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Law says. 

“You could have just said something.”

He ignores you, eyes closing briefly as he bends to nip at your earlobe. You can feel the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes against your cheek, his nose brushing against your jaw.

“This isn’t the rest I had in mind.”

He pulls back to look at you, heat simmering in his gaze. There are deep bruises ringing his eyes. “You’re still thinking of sleep right now?”

“Nap first,” you reply, your body heating under his fervent stare, “and we can go from there.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

* * *

Trafalgar D. Water Law never actually says that he loves you.

His lips are more likely to form words of admonishment, if you had to say. He can be found muttering plans to himself, shouting in frustration, or scolding his crew members. He is often seen letting taunts fly freely, riling up those around him with a few cocky words.

Sweet words aren’t really his style. It’s fortunate, then, that you’ve never sought them from him.

Words are unimportant, you think, when his hands deftly slide across your skin, never painful. A verbal reassurance that he’ll cherish you isn’t needed when his lips are gentle against your own; a promise of safety isn’t as good as his sword appearing, without fail, between you and the enemy when you need it.

Law approaches you where you stand at the edge of the Polar Tang’s railing, his footsteps dull and loud against the wooden planks. Two strong arms plant themselves on either side of yours as Law lets himself lean against you. His body is unusually warm, his hair just that bit more disheveled than usual. You feel his cheek land against your head. He seems freshly rolled out of bed.

“Bad rest?”

“I don’t sleep that well,” Law mumbles, “when you’re not there.”

_I need you._

“You want me to come keep you company? Bepo said we still have a ways to go before the next island. You could get in a nap.”

“Just stay still for a bit.” He nuzzles briefly against you, his body shivering slightly as the warmth leeches out of him. It must have been a bad nightmare; he isn’t even wearing a coat.

_I want you._

You’re silent for a long minute, until his arms are wrapped around you tightly in an effort to steal your body heat. You pat his arm gently and try to suppress a laugh. It’s rare for him to cling to you like this.

“Come on. You’re gonna freeze. Let’s at least get your coat and hat, if you want to stay outside.”

“Worry about your own body. I can handle myself,” Law drawls, a familiar refrain; but he lets you thread your fingers through his and tug him back indoors.

_I care about you._

“I love you,” you tell him, as he’s shrugging on his coat. He pauses for a moment, surprised, then turns and looks at you. His eyes are liquid sunshine when they meet your own.

“Yeah,” Law says, and you don’t need him to say anything more to understand what he means.

**Author's Note:**

> Now imagine if anyone actually followed the plans he keeps trying to make.
> 
> I'll be quiet for a while after this since I'm working on something a bit different and larger. Thank you for all your feedback, it really encourages me!


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